Ashes - The Special Edition: The Tales of Tartarus

by A. L. Mengel

  Antoine barreled out of the front door, the door banging against the wall as he threw it open, the nearby windowpane shaking in its frame. And Antoine disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Crack!

  Sparks flew as Antoine’s pickaxe clanked against Darius’ coffin liner. While it was not customary in the times that Antoine killed Darius to line graves with cement, Antoine chose to seal Darius’ coffin in concrete for an added extra measure of protection.

  It was still the wee hours of the morning.

  There were no hints yet of daylight in the sky. The blackness was still enveloping, a deep dark sky that cascaded down to the grass, to the swirling white mist that made the gravestones seem as though they were sitting in newly fallen snow.

  Antoine did not mind the loud clank that pierced the night silence as his pickaxe tore away at the lock on the grave liner. Despite being several hundred years old, Antoine mused at the fact that the lock was in excellent condition with very little rust. It has cost quite a bit, but again, he wanted an extra added measure of security, so Antoine bought the best lock he could find for the liner. Don’t want your maker rising from the grave and getting revenge on you for killing him, do you?

  Antoine still grimaced somewhat at what the chore that breaking the liner open had become. But with several more cracks that reverberated against the other crypts and stones and the mausoleum on the side of the cemetery, the liner could take no more and with a loud crack it split in two.

  Antoine looked around. The crash had been so loud and grating that he could feel it rumble the ground beneath him.

  Staring into the woods before him, he stopped for a moment, temporarily forgetting the freshly dug up grave before him, and stared more intensely into the thick, dark forest.

  There was something out there. He could feel the presence.

  Yes. And he had read about this before. Raising an immortal was a risky undertaking. It opens up the doors to different dimensions.

  Antoine returned his attention to the grave. He bent down into the grave and began to hoist each piece of the broken liner to the surface of the ground, throwing them aside.

  A tree snapped in the forest on the edge of the cemetery as Antoine snapped his head in the direction of the woods.

  It definitely was coming from the forest. Something was rustling in the woods, but he could not make anything out, as the darkness was still to enveloping. He stood on the coffin, ducking beneath the edge of the grave, as if hiding from an undetermined potential...killer? Or was it just an animal?

  More rustling came...and through the darkness, as Antoine peered above the grave, he saw some bushes moving. Yes. Something was indeed out in the woods.

  Now his fears were confirmed – the thunderous boom, which shook the ground, and resulting limbs snapping confirmed that an entire tree just fell. His breathing quickened. He ducked down further into the grave.

  The leaves rustled. Closer this time.

  Whatever it was, it was moving towards the graveyard. Another tree snapped and fell. Antoine crouched further down into the grave until he was down as far as he could go.

  He felt the ground shake with what sounded like heavy footsteps.

  “Darius….” A soft voice emanated from the casket.

  “Darius? Are you going to raise me from the dead?”

  Antoine snapped his head down in the direction of the casket, just barely visible through the broken liner.

  “Darius.”

  Who was in that coffin?

  Antoine’s heart was beating fast, and sweat was pouring down his face. He reached his arm topside to grab the axe.

  Antoine seemed puzzled. Something wasn’t making sense.

  He had to break open the casket fast. Something inside was calling Darius’ name. Hoisting the axe above him, it came down hard on the lid and broke it into pieces. Tossing it aside, he frantically tore at the remaining splintered shards of wood, and gasped.

  There he was. There he was. Lying in the casket. Dead as a pile of bones and ash.

  But it was himself, no doubt. His heart raced, his skin slimy with the sweat and dirt.

  Glancing at his arms he saw he was no longer wearing the black coat that he was when he entered the graveyard.

  These are not my clothes!

  He reached into the brown tarp bag, searching for something, perhaps a knife, so he could look at his reflection. Eventually finding one, he brought it up in front of his face sideways to serve as a mirror.

  When he saw, he dropped it to the ground.

  Waking up, covered in sweat, Antoine shook his head. Was it a dream? How was he back in the graveyard – again?

  He opened the coffin lid, and it creaked as he did so. Sitting up and draping his arm over the side of the casket, he replayed the dream in his mind, over and over. Was the dream a replay of his encounter with Asmodai?

  Or was it a premonition of events to come?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Castillo family had moved to Miami shortly after the birth of their first and only son, Jean Carlo. The year was 1976, and Jean Carlo was still just a baby. His parents, Hector and Elsa, did their very best to give their son what he needed – or at least as much as they could afford. In the beginning, Hector would work driving trucks during the day delivering produce through the region before crashing for a few hours after dinner. Then, later at night he would hop on the train to downtown and clean office buildings in the towering skyscrapers, until the sun would peek across the sky.

  And then the process would start all over again.

  Jean Carlo lost his father when he was only ten.

  After ten years of working two jobs and losing sleep night after night, he could not take it anymore. He loved his wife, and he loved his son. But he could not take the long days anymore. So one night, shortly after Elsa had turned in and had kissed him goodnight, after he had hugged his son and told him goodbye, Hector walked out the door, and he never returned again.

  Once the door closed, he walked right past the rusted car sitting in the driveway, and continued walking down the street. He walked further and further down the dark, wet streets of Miami, splashing through the water and puddles on the streets that reflected the moonlight.

  It was eerily quiet; there wasn’t any activity - which seemed rare for this city – but Hector did not pay it any mind. The destination that he had in mind was not far, and he knew the way anyway. What he hadn’t noticed was that he had walked all the way to Miami Beach, and was actually several miles away from where he had started.

  Reaching a street corner, he looked up.

  There were no clouds in the sky and the moon shined brightly, guarding over the sea of stars. A light and cooling wind blew. He crossed the street, and spotted a lonely grey door – his destination was nestled next to a large dumpster against a brick wall. He stood for a few minutes in front of the door and closed his eyes, exhaling. He glanced to the right and then to the left one last time.

  There still was no one there.

  He knocked on the door three times, and stood waiting for an answer. A few minutes later, the door opened to complete darkness.

  He stepped in.

  “Don’t say a word,” a mysterious female voice commanded.

  The door slammed, swallowing Hector in the darkness. He never once for a moment doubted that he had done the right thing. He knew that he would no longer see his wife, he knew that he would not witness the rest of Jean Carlo’s childhood.

  But he chose this path.

  He heard a pop – a snapping sound and after the resulting, smoky smell of sulfur in the air. He saw a hand holding a burning match in a small circle of yellowish light surrounded by darkness. The flame reached into the blackness and cast a faint glow, as a hand brought it to a candle, igniting the flame.

  He saw a woman with red hair. She drew her finger to pursed lips. “Come with me,” she whispered.

  She led him deeper into the building, and
their footsteps clanked down a set of steel stairs. Hector had to dodge old Styrofoam cups, crumpled papers and other trash carefully to keep from tripping. She held the candle, and although she stood next to him, he could barely see the stairs before him.

  And that was for the best.

  What he did not see was coming around the corner was a room prepared just for him. He could feel the stone walls, but most striking were the people in the room. They were dressed in black; giant flowing robes that covered their faces and reached to the floor, covering them to stand like chess pieces rising from the floor; each one indistinguishable from the next.

  In the center of the room was a square stone slab, a solid structure rising from the floor. Four black metal hooks rose from each corner on the top surface.

  “I have prepared this place for you, as you had requested,” the woman said, glancing in his direction and smiling as they stood in the large, sloped doorway to the room.

  Hector looked up.

  An iron cage hung from the ceiling, and there was a giant fire burning inside. The flames moved steadily in a circle inside the cage, and were completely contained, as if it were being manipulated by an unseen force. He lowered his gaze and looked ahead and around the room, he saw that the black hooded ones were gathered in a semicircle around the slab.

  And he knew what that slab was.

  He already knew of the dark forces at work here. And he knew why he must sacrifice himself tonight.

  Several years earlier, he had noticed a change in his son.

  Jean Carlo became increasingly quiet and distant, not really spending much time outside him room other than going to school. It got to a point where Jean Carlo would come home, slam the door behind him, stomp up the stairs and lock himself in his room. He generally would not come down until the next morning. He was not eating, and had lost weight. He didn’t really ever look his father in the face, even when being asked a direct question. And when he did look at his father, Jean Carlo looked like a skeleton. The skin hugged his skull; each ridge of bone was pronounced, and his eyes stared straight and wide.

  And it was those changes that prompted Hector to look through his room one day when he had called in sick to work. As he dabbed the tip of his nose with a wadded tissue, he sniffled as he rifled through drawers of socks and shirts and found something that no ten year old should have in his dresser drawer.

  He dug down into the clothes, and felt the stiff, cool edge of a hardback book. He fished out several books, each hidden vigilantly between bright red and blue t-shirts and brilliant white tube socks; each book large and thick bound. As he pulled each book out, he dropped them to the floor and shook his head

  He ran to the other room for his phone and quickly called Elsa.

  “He found my books!” he screamed into the phone, his voice still very nasal from his cold. “How could he have found them? I had them locked away!”

  “He asked for them, Hector,” Elsa replied. “I gave them to him.”

  “What? When?”

  “He has shown a great interest in religion. He even said he might be interested in becoming a priest. It’s not like it isn’t out there. With every good, there is evil. You know that.”

  “I had hoped to have put that behind me.”

  “Then why do you still have the books?”

  Hector squeezed the phone until his hand turned red and the veins were showing through his skin. He did not like it when his wife demanded such answers; she knew that he had gotten involved, in his younger days, with parapsychology and demonic research. He had almost lost his life during a sacrificial ritual where he had been forced to slit his cheeks down from the ear to the jawbone and have his face covered with a plastic bag as it filled with blood.

  Touching one of the scars on his face, he considered the question. “You know why I have the books, Elsa. I have them because I cannot get rid of them. They are not something I can just throw away. They will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have tried trashing them, and they would always show up again. As if someone came and put them back on the shelf. That’s why I locked them up downstairs. And now here I am finding them in our ten year old son’s room!”

  “It’s part of religion, hon, and he has an interest in this.”

  Hector stooped down on the floor, examining the books. He pulled out a book, Les Livre Des Vampires. He closed his eyes and sighed. A book filled with evil, lust and demons. “It’s unhealthy for him to have this interest, even if it’s for an interest in priesthood. He is far too young. I am taking these books and burning them.”

  But he never did burn the books.

  As he stood before the hooded brethren and prepared to accept his fate, two of the members walked up to him and grabbed him roughly, snapping his arms behind him as if he were a criminal and shackled him in chains.

  The woman removed her hood.

  He red hair framed her face, with was youthful and beautiful. Her bright red lips smiled to reveal gleaming white teeth. But they didn’t stay white for long. Hector looked more closely at her teeth, which were beginning to elongate and spike.

  The teeth grew sharp like the tips of swords, and turned black and putrid and dripping acid to the floor which vanished into tiny puffs of smoke. Her tongue slithered out of a proboscis turned black and acrid; the sliver tip darted in and out between her fangs like a giant serpent. The skin of her face transformed slowly as the black skin fingered its way across her cheeks.

  Hector was guided over to the slab by the two followers, and he looked up. He did not resist, but rather scanned the room once more, noticing the hooded brethren. They pulled their hoods back, and Hector saw that he was the only mortal in the room.

  Something was out of place.

  Each face was a serpent. All of the faces were moving and changing; often the eyes would replace a slithering tongue, and the cheeks would sink in and hug the bone; or the ears would move to the center of the face, as the eyes moved down towards the neck. But one thing was for sure – one thing that Hector had been certain of. Was that the faces always were moving; and they always were laughing and slithering.

  Slithering.

  And then she came to him. She grabbed his arm. “You stupid fuck!” she hissed. “You shouldn’t have done that! You shouldn’t have! I know what you were thinking when you were rooting through that drawer! You wanted a pair, didn’t you?”

  And then, he felt a twinge of regret.

  He did not want to die this way.

  He did not want to live out the rituals that he so often read about, night after night, feeding a hobby that became an obsession. For the first time since he had entered the door, he started to struggle.

  “You fucking fuck!” She slithered her tongue along the side of his cheek. He felt a cold hot flesh pierce his skin. “They looked enticing, didn’t they? A nice pair of tighty whiteys right next to your books.”

  He grunted as the chains clanked against the quiet dull roar of the fire. He tried to speak, although he tried many times and with great effort to shout and scream; but it would not matter. He was too far down. Deep down the flights of stairs that he was led, further down into the recesses of the catacombs – no one could hear a scream anyway.

  The fire surged and fingered its way down towards the altar; as if commanded. The fire swelled, and brightened the room. Hector felt the sweat bead on his forehead. The Lead Serpent slithered up his side, wrapped itself around his arm, tightening its grip tighter and tighter until his arm started to turn purple. He cried out.

  The two serpents that held his shackles were still a sickening cross between mortal males and snakes, their greenish muscular limbs pulling the chains tighter until he cried out.

  There was no use in resisting – but he tried nonetheless.

  His muscles swelled as he felt them filling up with blood, and he lunged forward onto the altar. The female serpent hissed and spit, wrapping itself around his arm even tighter, and as he lay on his back on the altar, he tried pulling at the
snake to get it off of his arm.

  “Do not resist me!” the snake hissed at she bit his cheek, piercing his skin sending a shower of blood in a river on the floor. Her eyes stared straight into Hector’s. “You dreamt this!” She said. “You wanted this! You asked for this! And now the fate is yours – you will die on this altar as so many have died on this altar before. It is too late now for forgiveness, it’s too late to reverse this passion!”

  He jumped up but was immediately stopped by the serpents that had held his shackles. He stood before the group, his eyes locked with theirs, their places held. The group was closing in on him. There would be no mercy here. A sacrifice must be made before dawn. And Hector was the perfect candidate; his dark side lured him in, curiosity overtaking him.

  “This is what happens to miserable fucks like you!” she said, drawing her arm up in command.

  They closed in on him – the two serpents completely transformed and wrapped around his waist, squeezing him until he collapsed down onto the altar.

  He tried to scream but couldn’t.

  He was picked up and thrown back down on the altar, so hard that blood oozed out from under his head, causing a small pool to form and drip down the side of the stone slab.

  Several of the watching serpents slithered over to the dripping blood and began to lap and drink it. Three man-serpents held Hector down as the snakes that had wrapped themselves around his torso loosened and dissolved into chains, linking themselves onto the hooks on the slab, tightening over his body to a death grip.

  The female serpent transformed back into a cross between a snake-demon, and stood over Hector, now unable to move in the chains confining him on the altar.

  “This is the moment you have lived your life for,” she said, looking down upon him. She drew a sword. “Azra!” she commanded.